


Baker Street Shorts

by canweallberoyal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canweallberoyal/pseuds/canweallberoyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some short little things I wrote to help with writers block. I eventually hope to have one with every character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

My chair is back. 

I stand in the doorway of 221B staring at the maroon chair that is now positioned neatly by the fireplace, where it had always sat. 

Why is my chair back? 

Sherlock had removed the object when I had moved out. He claimed that it blocked his view of the bloody kitchen. If my chair was back it meant Sherlock had known I was moving back into the flat. 

Quietly I walk into the kitchen. 

“Why is my chair back?” I ask Sherlock. 

Sherlock is bent over the kitchen table. The sight of him is practically erotic. 

His wrinkled grey shirt is untucked, and I can see a sliver of silvery skin peeking out above the black pant line, pressed against the hard edge of the table. He is barefoot. It is something of a weird indulgence for him; the cool floor on the bottoms of his feet. The black pants he is wearing are tight against his perfectly rounded bum and I let my light blue eyes linger there longer than necessary. Sherlock’s grey sleeves are pushed up as far as possible, unable to retreat further up the lean arms because of the slight muscles in his forearms. The shirt is unbuttoned, rare for the tall man standing in front of me. The veins in his neck are taut from stretching his long body across the table. Large, transparent goggles cling to his chiseled face, his ebony curls fighting the flattening power of the white elastic strap. 

I have never seen anything as beautiful as the man standing before me. 

Sherlock looks over to me. Sparkling green eyes give me a once over. 

“I knew you would be home.” he says simply.


	2. Feline

“Mycroft, look what I found!” Sherlock shouted. The skinny boy raced up the massive staircase, holding a tiny object in the palm of his hand. Once he had counted the stairs he now ran up. He was barely big enough to climb them, but even at age five he had been a genius. He had counted twenty-seven stairs; when he reached the top he turned around and slid back down on his bottom, after all, even geniuses needed to have fun. 

He scrambled up the endless staircase, stopping to catch his breath at the top and pet the small, yellow kitten he held tight in his hands. If he was caught with it he would be beaten, mother was allergic, but it was only a week old and wouldn’t live without help. Resuming his fast pace he arrived at his brother’s room uncaught. 

“Mycroft,” he knocked before letting himself in. Holding the kitten tight he approached his brother. 

The older boy was seated at his desk working on some project, ignoring his baby brother. His blonde hair was parted and he swiveled back and forth in his chair. Chocolate cake sat on a small plate on the desk. Sherlock knew Mycroft was frustrated, knew better than to disturb him, knew that if he didn’t the kitten would die. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, he was only seven years old for goodness sake, but Mycroft could help. 

Mycroft always helped. 

“I found a kitten. He’s going to die if we don’t help.” 

“Go away Sherlock.” 

“But Mycroft . . .” The look that Sherlock gave his brother could melt hearts around the world. His blue eyes changing to sea foam as Mycroft swiveled to look at him, dark curls hanging down over his forehead, tears forming, and the tiny, butter colored kitten lying in his cupped hands. Mycroft felt his heart tug. 

“Fine, but if we get caught with it . . .” the threat was unspoken, but heard. Sherlock nodded solemnly, his eyes wide with excitement and worry.


	3. Just Friends

I follow John inside 221B. We haven’t spoken since leaving Lestrade at New Scotland Yard. I suppose it is my fault. I broke the boundaries. 

Looking back over the evening I realize waiting for an armed criminal in a dark back alley probably wasn’t the best time or place to tell John how I feel about him. I could blame it on the adrenaline, but the truth is John slows my blood down to the point of uselessness. When I am around him I can’t function. I suppose I thought telling him would help get my body back in gear. 

We step into the hall. Silently, wordlessly walk the seventeen steps to our flat. John still does not speak to me. I need him to say something, anything. My green eyes follow him to the kitchen. I make my way to the couch, turn into it begin to file my raw emotions away. 

John is suddenly beside me. His grey eyes are unreadable. There is a black string on the right shoulder of his white jumper. He says nothing. _God John_. A clinking sound lets me know he has set down his tea on the side table. 

Johns’ lips are pressed against mine now. Soft and pink, smaller than mine, hungrily moving in rhythm with mine. Is this what he has been holding back the entire time? I need to calculate every inch of his mouth, but I find I can’t concentrate. He pulls away to gasp a breath. I whimper at the sudden lack of contact. 

“I love you too, you know.” he says. 

I nod, understanding his silence now.


End file.
